


past is prologue

by dancingstar



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Break Up, M/M, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2019-10-23 03:44:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17675822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingstar/pseuds/dancingstar
Summary: Five years ago, Grantaire cut all ties with Les Amis and swore off magic forever, and no one knows why. Now, he wakes up cursed, and has to seek the Amis for help.In which R regrets the past, reacquaints with old friends and an old boyfriend, and really, really hates pop music.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Tempest - Shakespeare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bother me on tumblr @starsisbig

             The Lucky Leeper is a hole-in-the-wall lunch spot. There’re very few places like this left near his apartment. There’s something about the unfriendly waiters, cheap coffee, and ratty booths that are more like home than any upscale café. Those attributes are also the likely broken-legs in the collapse of similar restaurants.

            “Hey, R. Your food’s on the grill.”

            As the door swings shut behind him, he places a hand on his chest, feigning a lovestruck sigh. “Oh, Nickie, you make a guy’s heart sing.”

            “Don’t I ever,” she mumbles, rolling up her sleeves.

            Nickie’s probably the closest thing he has to a mother-figure. That being said, she’s more like an aunt-figure– an-aunt-with-an-axe-to-grind– figure. She always has a moue of distaste coloring her expression. Even when she’s smiling you can _feel_ it lurking close by.

            “You ‘gonna just stand there? Sit down, you’re making Jak nervous.”

            The man in question pokes his head from below the counter.

            “I’m jus’ grabbing napkins. ‘Aire couldn’t make me sweat if his pants ‘er on fire.”

            Grantaire rolls his eyes, sliding easily onto a stool.

            A mug of coffee and a newspaper are slid in front of him. Jak leers over his cardboard box, an unreadable look on his face.

            “You might wanna’ check out page three. Something about an old friend a’ yours.”

            Lord, he has a lot of those.

            Some pop tune is playing over the speakers. He recognizes it with unfamiliarity he blames on his oft repeated playlists. The female vocalist lacks enunciation, weaving around pitch _and_ octaves. It’s catchy enough to fade into the background unless actively listened to. Not to sound ornery, but music has taken a _turn_.

            The third page is taken up mostly by an advice column.

            “I’m not friends with any _Dear Lizzy_ , last I checked.”

            Jak, now wrapping silverware, replies without looking up from his art. “Don’t be ‘n ass, _ami_.”

            Grantaire feels something cold take root in his chest; feels his lazy grin fall. He takes a closer look at the paper. Sure enough, in a small bold print near the bottom corner:

           

                        **Man Arrested for Parq Square Assault Released on Parole**

           

            Voice low, trying impossibly hard to be calm, he says, “I’m not friends with him.”

            “That’s not what ya’ told _us_.”

            He shakes his head, feeling a twitch build in his hand. “I didn’t have a _choice_ , _Jak._ ”

            A hand falls heavily onto his shoulder. He startles, hitting his mug with the side of his palm.

            Nickie stands behind him. “We know, kid. But that whole tangle wasn’t a peach for any a’ us.”

            For a moment, Grantaire just stares at the spilled coffee, crawling over the smudged print, staining the picture of a familiar face from years ago.

            Jak, looking conflicted, or constipated, sighs, and opens his mouth.

            Grantaire nods, interrupting with: “Yeah. Um. I’m gonna’ go…”

            Now standing, he pats his pockets, searching for a wallet he’s _certain_ he left the apartment with.

            Nickie, still with his shoulder in her grip, pushes him toward the door.

            “Oh git. Didn’t even eat anything, ya’ freeloader.”

 

            Once outside, he feels the panic begin to settle in. A ticking tremor builds in the back of his mind, like a slowly slipping _plink- plink-_ of dripping sand in an hourglass. It falls down the back of his spine like a shiver. It clogs his throat. God, it was all so long ago.

            He couldn’t forget about them, though. He tried. More than he’s ever tried in his life, he tried. He– _They_ were a love permanently set in his soul, permanently burnt in his mind. Grantaire ruined it all, and he could never go back. He doesn’t deserve it. They don’t deserve it.

            The subject has long since wrenched tears from his eyes, and he can’t open that wound again. It nearly killed him last time.

            This calls for a long, _long_ delirious night.

 

*****

 

            Grantaire wakes up to ringing. It’s deeper, more magnetic than a bell, but just as loud and unsettling. It’s unlike any hangover he’s ever had.

He untangles his arm and pushes it out into the cold air, aiming for his alarm clock. Instead, his hand meets the hardwood top of his bedside table. Annoyed, he throws the knot of blankets away and sits up. Focusing through the din, his eyes are assaulted by the soft morning light, filtered orange through the curtains.

            He slips his hand under the pillow, smoothing over fabric before coming across the hard plastic of his phone. Grantaire presses the home button and searches for a notification amidst the spread of jarringly bright icons.

            Nothing.

            Groaning, he throws it back onto the bed, digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, and takes a moment to be frustrated. It’s seven in the morning for fucks sake.

            Energy tremors around him with every metallic clang. His thoughts compress, relax, compress, relax. It’s as if he’s tuned into an accordion, large as the Earth.

            Slowly, as he grows more awake and focused, breathing carefully on-beat, he begins to hear the rhythm and buzz inside it that feels awfully familiar–

            Panic strikes a new chord in his chest. This is not a hangover.

            He barely notices what he throws on– a shirt and pants, no doubt; whatever he’d left on his floor– before he’s out the door. He only just remembers to lock his apartment with a shaky twist of the latch.

 

            Outside, the sun is blinding. It pierces into his brain like syringe full of molten steel. He almost retreats back into the building, hand over his brow, but the issue at hand yanks him out and nips at his heels.

             He travels down the sidewalk at a jaunt just a bit faster than is socially acceptable. Every few steps he skips a little, trying to keep himself from running. Even discounting his deranged pace, he looks crazed.

            In his mad dash, he’s arranged himself quite haphazardly. Wrinkled pants, a stained T-shirt, and boots left untied are only a fraction of his ragged persona. He can’t– won’t imagine how his face and hair are contributing. Hint: probably not favorably.

            The morning air sweeps through the crowd of early-risers without a hint of bitterness. Energy here feels broader, less focused, or– it would, if he could listen accurately. Instead of peace, Grantaire just feels agitation. Agitation at uneven cobbled walk; agitation at the low-risen sun, poking over the brick buildings; agitation at the damn birds twittering and honking glaringly discordant notes.

            One woman, upon approaching, whispers a protection cast into her scarf. He can’t be mad at that. One– yeah, fair. Look at him. Two, he just can’t be bothered when it feels like Hephaestus himself is smithing using his skull as an anvil.

            Finally, with an exhale of relief, he reaches Jehan’s shop.

Their brand of divination is always bizarrely specific, so it isn’t surprising to see the note left on the door:

           

                        I LEFT A KEY IN YOUR PHONE. MEET ME UPSTAIRS.

                                    ~ JEHAN

           

            Grantaire opens the Notes app on his phone and, huffing a strained laugh, he reads aloud: “I’m a flying purple people eater.”

            The door clicks. Unlocked.

           

            As he swings it open, a bell sends a jolt of bright white pain through his eye sockets with its gentle twinkle. While his vision clears, the door falls silently closed.

            The inside of the shop smells of mint and pine, just as he remembers. New plants drape lazily over potted edges; older plants, ones he recognizes, are fuller and lush. The philodendron in the corner is swaying in an undetectable breeze, as if waving ‘hello.’

            An ache, gentler than the one rattling his brain, presses deeply on his ribs.

            After a pause, he opens the door behind the sales desk and climbs the rickety steps. Every creak adds a layer to the overwhelming static clinging to the roof of his skull. By the time he makes it to the top, his eyes are squinted nearly shut.

            A flurry a color is all he sees before something warm is thrust under his nose. Mist, floral and fresh, rushes through his senses, clearing everything as it goes. The pressure in his forehead lifts. He feels his brow unfurrow. His eyes open and start to process–

            “Jehan.” They’re smiling, holding a cup of tea.

            “R, it’s good to see you again.”

            Grantaire sighs.

            They lift the tea closer. “Take this.”

            He does.

            “How–” he begins, “How much do you know.”

            “Enough to know that that tea is only a temporary fix.”

            Jehan may be the clairvoyant, but Grantaire knows where this is going.

            “I can’t…”

            “This is draining you. You need to go to someone who can _stop_ it, not treat the symptoms…”

            Grantaire opens his mouth to object.

            “You need to see Combeferre.”

            The name widens the ache in his chest into a bruise. “Jehan…”

            “You came here, after years of _nothing_ , because you _knew_ it was serious, what this is. I don’t care why you left. I care about you, and so does everyone else. We need to fix this.”

            He closes his eyes. Something like grief squeezes in his throat. ' _We.'_

            A pause.

            “…Ok.”


	2. Chapter 2

            Jehan, with a hand in the crook of his elbow, leads him down the sidewalk. The tea’s eased the pain, and he finds himself looking at his companion, studying how they’ve changed.

            Their hair is longer now, the braid falling down to their waist. It sways with every step, a bright orange pendulum. He used to weave daisies into it. Daisies, a flower of playful beauty, have always been connected to Jehan in his mind.

            They still look peaceful, eyes always a little far off. It’s the price of seeing so much all the time.

            “How’ve you been?” He says, hesitant.

            They sigh. “Oh, like the wind. Here and there. Fast and slow.”

            Grantaire nods.

            “I’ve missed you. I’m not angry with you, but I am… I _was_ sad.”

            “I’m sorry,” he says, eyes dipped low, “I missed you too.”

            Jehan, with their other hand, brushes his arm soothingly. Then, they smirk.

            “Combeferre and Courfeyrac got engaged.”

            He nearly stops in his tracks.

            “No way! _Finally_. Who proposed?”

 

            Easy as that, the energy loosens. He feels the tension knotted around his chest begin to untangle. He finds out that not only are they engaged, they adopted two cats: Tom and Jerry. There was a debate about whether to go with Ben and Jerry, Puss and Boots, Barnes and Noble (that one was _clearly_ Combeferre’s first choice), or Mac and Cheese. They’d had a vote at the Musain and everything.

            Cosette and Éponine are dating, apparently. He can’t believe he missed that. They must be so happy. All the nights he spent with Ép, drunk off their asses, losing their minds about things they can’t have…

            “Here we are!”

            Grantaire, through his aching smile, says, “The… Musain?”

            Jehan looks at him knowingly. “They live upstairs.”

           

*****

 

            They knock on the door, gripping his arm in a way they know Grantaire finds comforting. He’s grounded. There’s no floating away from here.

            “I got it, I _got it._ ” The voice says from inside.

            Jehan must be able to hear his heart pounding.

            The door swings open.

            Combeferre’s easy grin greets them, hand resting on the knob. He turns his head, his eyebrows skyrocket, his grin falters.

            “Hey… _Grantaire_. Hi.”

            It’s his turn to speak, he knows, but– He opens his mouth and all that comes out is more silence, filling the air between them.

            “He’s been cursed,” Jehan steps in, “and we thought it best to come here.”

            Combeferre nods, eyes not leaving Grantaire’s. They aren’t judgmental, just thoroughly analytical, as if reading his mind through his pupils.

            He opens the door wider, stepping out of the way.

            “Is that lovely Jehan’s voice I hear? Just the energy this place needs today. I’ve had a nagging feeling all morn… ing.”

            Courfeyrac walks in from the kitchen, holding a bowl, halting upon seeing him there. The spoon hovers over the cereal in his left hand, ready. The look he’s cast is carefully blank. If his heartrate could increase even more, it would. Instead, it travels into his ears, shouting every good reason Courf’d have to hate him.

            Combeferre clears his throat. “Courf, could you grab my kit?”

            “ _Kit?_ ” He finally averts his gaze to his fiancé. “Is this _curse related?_ ”

            Upon receiving the nod, he turns to Grantaire again. “Are you okay?” His expression, now, is bursting with concern.

            Finally finding his voice, he replies, “Yeah, relatively.”

            Courfeyrac sets down his cereal on the nearest surface, which happens to be a couch-side table, and rushes up to him, pulling him into a strong-armed hug.

            “How’d you manage that?” His friend says, chuckle muffled by his shoulder.

            Grantaire doesn’t respond for a minute, taking in the warmth.

            “I’m an easy person to hate, I guess,” is what he goes with, taking a playful whack from Jehan.

           

            Eventually, they pull apart, and Grantaire is led to the couch. In the time he and Courf had spent embracing, Combeferre had fetched his “kit,” and was now pointing a flashlight into his eyes. He squints, trying to ignore the sharp pain, once again, threatening his patience.

            “Headache?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Nausea?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Sensitivity to sound?”

            “Yep.”

            “Sensitivity to light?”

            “ _Yes._ ”

            At that, he clicks the light off, setting it next to him where he’s seated on the hassock.

             “From the looks of it, it’s a textbook Siphon Cast,” Combeferre says, confirming both his and Jehan’s suspicions. “Any idea who it’s from?”

            Grantaire blinks several times. One, to clear his vision of lingering dark spots; and two, to buy him some time. He hadn’t thought this through. He shouldn’t be here. Once he tells them, they’re going to _know_.

            “Yeah,” he says, “for sure.”

            They all stare at him, waiting.

            He looks down at his hands, which are rubbing together anxiously.

            “Okay,” Combeferre says, standing up. “I’ll start on a remedy. Jehan?”

            “I’ll help!” They reply, already walking to the kitchen.

           

            It’s him and Courfeyrac left, sat side by side. He can hear his unrelenting curiosity poking at the side of his head, like a starving woodpecker, desperate for tidbits. Courfeyrac has this unending, unabashed need to know everything. This has always endeared Courf to him, but now it feels dangerous.

            “Where’re you living these days?”

            Grantaire exhales. Easy question. “Not far. Over by the Lucky Leeper.”

            He nods. “They have the _best_ shitty coffee this side of the river.”

            “Yeah,” he laughs, “I love it in there. If only they’d stop nagging me about my hair...”

            “Well, someone’s got to. If it weren’t for us you’d be wearing a _hot mess_ up there.” He emphasizes his severity by jabbing his finger at his nest of tangles.

            Grantaire sticks his hands into the knots and ruffles it some more. He laughs again, this time out of nervousness. He really needs to ask about it. “It” being the distance between them. “It” being his sudden departure. Every minute he spends ignoring the gaping chasm of five-years absence, the tension in his chest increases tenfold.

            “I… I missed you guys. Really.”

            Courfeyrac shifts his position, crossing his legs, his open expression now guarded. “I’m not going to tell you I understand, because I really don’t, but we knew you needed space, after whatever happened between you and…” He waves his hand vaguely, ignoring the wince on Grantaire’s face, “We missed you too. Especially with absolutely _no word_ from you for _five years_.”

            “I’m sorry. I’m _really_ sorry.” He says, aborting his movement to rest his hand on Courf’s shoulder. “It wasn’t because of him. It was all about me, what I did. He knows that, right?”

            Courf looks him right in the eye. “I’m not sure he does…”

            Grantaire feels his heart sink.

            “…But that sounds like something you need to ask him.”

            The sound of blood rushing into his ears takes up his whole focus. He hadn’t even thought about seeing him again. Oh, and he’s going to _hate_ him. Grantaire doesn’t think he can take that second heartbreak. It was one thing to split up, but seeing the boiling, righteous anger will be devastating. Unfortunately, avoiding him isn’t an option. He can’t do anything more to incur the rightful disappointment from his friends.

            “Grantaire.”

            He looks up, unaware that he’d zoned out, staring at his hands.

            Courfeyrac’s brow has furrowed, and there’s a new sharpness in his gaze. “It was my understanding that _you_ broke up with _him_. Not the other way around.”

            Grantaire swallows and nods.

            “Then why are you _still_ taking it so hard?” His voice has lost most of its compassion, stepping to his friend’s defense.

            He blurts without thinking, desperate, “‘Cuz I didn’t want to do it.”

            Incredulity is painted all over his face. With a wince, Grantaire braces for the inevitable, and reasonable, ‘ _why?’_

            To his relief, Courfeyrac looks away at the sudden jumbling coming from the door, the sound of someone fitting a key in the lock.

            His blood goes cold when he hears their voice.

            “You wouldn’t be _lieve_ the shit I got from Gaussier yesterday. I wanted to punch him in the throat. It took all my self-control not…”  
            It feels like the whole world stops. His heart, hammering with all its might, pushes up into his throat, clogging his words, because there before him, looking just as beautiful, as breathtaking, in his jeans and sweatshirt, as he did the last time they spoke, is Enjolras. His eyes are wide, locked on his. They just look confused.

            “Hey, Enj.” His voice is soft and ragged, unsure.

            Enjolras says nothing and continues to stare at him, before looking at Courfeyrac, who also hasn’t moved.

            “He’s been cursed. Combeferre and Jehan are in the kitchen.”

            “Okay.” Enjolras says, turning back to Grantaire and starting toward the kitchen, “Don’t die.”

            Okay.


	3. Chapter 3

            The “remedy” tastes purely of dirt. He’s ninety percent sure it’s _not_ supposed to, but he’d rather not be the one to call out Combeferre. That guy is the absolute best person to have on your side, and the absolute _worst_ to have as opposition. He’s whip-smart, analytical, and ruthless when needs must. He’s basically the Hermione of real life.

            And since there’s a very good chance he’s _not_ on his side anymore, it seems drinking dirt was an inevitable.

            Combeferre, stony, watches him finish the dose with Jehan and Courfeyrac.

            “Thanks,” He says, setting the cup on the table nearby. “Seriously.”

            Combeferre nods, a bit of lost emotion leaking into his eyes.

            “Sorry it’s been so long. I’ll keep in touch this time.”

            Grantaire stands up and is hit with a powerful wave of dizziness. His body feels light, flying upwards. He hears a chorus of voices as murmurs, the rushing, surging in his ears is so loud.

            “Whoa, whoa, whoa, easy.”

            He’s sitting again. The couch. Combeferre has his hands on his shoulders, holding him down, as if he could go anywhere. Christ, his vision is still swimming.

            “You’re not going anywhere.”

            “Why… What..?”

            His sight stops swirling enough for him to see the slight amusement on Combeferre’s face.

            “You look rough. We put in a sedative effect.”

            Grantaire gasps melodramatically, “You… You _Judas_!”

            Combeferre outright smirks.

            “We have a guest room, but... I don’t think you can make it there.”

            “Either it’s stronger than we intended, or you really, _really_ needed it,” Jehan laughs from his left, hand placed on his upper arm.

            “Et _tu…_ ” He yawns. “Et tu… Brute.”

            The world grays. Far away, he hears someone say, “Make room on the couch,” and then it’s completely black.

 

 

*****

 

           

            The doorbell rings.

           

            Grantaire leaps from his spot on a kitchen stool, walking quickly to open the door.

            “Hénri!” His sister leaps through the entrance, pulling him into a deep hug.

            He smiles, “Hi, Renée. How are you?”

            She pulls back, looking put upon. “Ugh, so formal. What’s _your_ deal?”

            “Nothing,” He shakes his head, meeting eye contact with her boyfriend over her shoulder.

            “Hi, Grantaire.”

            He feels the ghost of staleness sink into his grin. “Hi, Bernard. Come in.”

            Bernard steps across the threshold and lifts his right fist, presenting a bottle of Pinot, shaking it a little.

“Shall we get started?”

            Renée cheers, already sitting on the leather couch.

            “I’d rather not.”

            Bernard doesn’t look surprised. “Oh, is Enjolras home?”

            Grantaire clenches his jaw.

            “You know he isn’t.”

            He lowers the hand holding the wine, looking innocently curious.

            “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

            “He works until five.”

            “Tell him I’m sorry to have missed him.”

            Grantaire doesn’t respond, just shuts the door and locks it.

            Bernard then joins Renée on the sofa, placing the Pinot on the hassock and an arm around her shoulders. He crosses one leg over the other, a picture of perfect nonchalance.

            There’s a moment of silence, Bernard rubbing his thumb gently over the fabric of Renée’s cardigan, smiling easily at Grantaire’s unwavering gaze.

            “Fine,” he finally says, turning to his girlfriend, “Didn’t you say you had to use the bathroom?”

            Her eyes suddenly widen in shock.

            “Oh shit. I totally forgot!” She stands, practically running down the hall, letting Bernard’s arm fall lazily onto the abandoned cushions.            

            Once she turns the corner, Grantaire lets his look fall into a glare, feeling the pressure in his brow.

            “Wow!” Bernard chuckles, waving his hand through the air in front of his face, “That’s impressive. I can _actually_ _feel_ the animosity here.”

            “I did everything you said, now let her go, asshole.”

            He draws in a deep breath, screwing up his face into one of exaggerated pondering. 

            “Hmm. I seem to recall one… more… thing…”

            Grantaire crosses his arms and shakes his head, “No. I told you, I can’t do that.”

            Bernard groans.

            “You _can._ You just _won’t_. Big difference, buddy.” He punctuates his point with an obnoxious wave of his pointer finger.

            Grantaire sighs, anxiety roiling turbulently in his gut, wondering how he ever got himself into this position in the first place.

            “Remember, I can always do this without you. There’s always Plan B. If you want out, just let me know.” There’s a deceptive ring of cheer in his voice.

            Grantaire just looks back at him, wary.

            Bernard smiles brightly.

            “You keep razors in your bathroom, right?”

            A pang of terror strikes through him, blood going cold. He feels his eyes go impossibly wide, looking down the hall.

            “You see? I _knew_ we’d come to an agreement. You’ve always been agreeable, Grantaire.” He pats the armchair diagonal to his left, an invitation. “Let’s celebrate! _Renée! We’re opening the wine!”_

            Finally finding his voice, he says, “I’d much rather you just left.”

            Renée comes skipping in, a hungry look in her eye.

            “Let’s pop some Pinot!” She hollers, one hand curled around her mouth as a megaphone.

            Bernard frowns. “Sorry, honey. Your brother is looking for a quiet-night-in after all.”

            “ _Ugh_ , I swear. You must be coming down with something. _You_ saying _no_ to _binge-drinking_?”

            He forces a laugh. “Sorry, Renée. I’m just tired. I’ve had a lot of work recently.”

            She harrumphs again, leaning over the back of the couch and grabbing the wine.

            “Okay, _weenie_. Get some sleep, then, ‘cuz next time,” she points at him, “there’s no wimping out.”

            Renée briskly walks out the door, patting Grantaire on the shoulder as she passes. He gives her a quick once-over, checking for anything out of place.

            Bernard stands up and starts to follow her. He pauses when he reaches him.

            “It was nice seeing you.”

           

            The door clicks shut behind him.

           

            There’s a moment of perfect stillness before action hits him like a train. Before he can process the urge, he’s running to the bathroom, socks sliding perilously on the hardwood.

            The cold wood turns into colder tile. He swings the door shut, giving him a clear view of the entire floor. Pristine and white.

            He frantically swings the shower curtain to one side, surveying the clean, off-white tub for spots of red. There’s nothing. Nothing except a few stray blond and brown hairs.

            He checks the sink, the cabinet, the toilet, the floor again, the walls, the ceiling, the sink again, the toilet, the floors just _one_ more time, before he realizes he’s hyperventilating.

            The bathroom is suddenly unnaturally bright and spotty, bursts of gray dots dancing around his periphery.

            Oh, he has to sit down.

 

            This.

 

            This isn’t good.

 

            Releasing his grip on the vanity, he staggers backward until he hits the wall and shakily lowers himself to the ground.

            It takes a couple tries, but he eventually gets his elbows to rest on his knees, propping his head up in his hands as he stares blankly at the floor.

 

 

            Time passes without attention to ticks or second-hands on clocks or rules anyone agreed on. Eventually, he can hear his heart beat without recoiling from the blow. Sweat is cooling the oppressive heat in his cheeks. The grid pattern below him no longer moves.

            He’s focusing on slowing his breathing when there’s a sharp rap on the bathroom door.

            Grantaire jumps.

            “R? You okay?”

            It’s Enjolras.

He opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out, just a heaving breath.

            “R. Let me in.”

            He sounds worried. _Did he lock the door?_

            There’s a loud jiggling of the door-handle.

            “ _Grantaire_.”

            Huh. _He must’ve locked the door._

            A high-pitched _buzz_ punches through the air, and soon after, Enjolras is pushing the door inward, hand still sparking from the spell.

            He kneels in front of him, eyes wide with concern.

            “What’s going on? Tell me what’s wrong.”

            A stab of sorrow hits his heart. _He can’t._

Grantaire shakes his head, a shudder collapsing him in on himself.

            Enjolras reaches and holds his face in his hands, swiping a leftover tear with his thumb and forcing him to look up at him.

            “Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.” He looks so serious. There’s a fire in his eyes. “I promise.”

            With that, he pulls Grantaire into an awkward hug, pressing his mostly-dry eyes into his neck, hiding the hopelessness in their gaze. His arms are strong and sure around his back, as if Grantaire would try to break free and run away.

            More than that, it feels like love.

            Eyes squeezed shut, Grantaire lifts his hands to grip Enjolras’s coat, pulling him even closer in his self-imposed darkness.

 

 

*****

 

 

            He startles awake, nose pressed uncomfortably into a cloth cushion.

            Slowly, he sits up, reeling from the reliving of that memory. He tentatively touches his own cheek, not surprised to find an errant tear lingering near his chin.

 

            He looks around. There’s no one here.

            Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s apartment is completely empty… and… blurry?

 

            That can’t be right.

           

            Sure enough, even when narrowing his eyes, the different spines of books run together. The carpet is one mess of color, barely resembling the pattern it’d had earlier. It’s as if the world was suddenly watercolor, bleeding out in the rain.

           

            Something is _definitely_ wrong.

 

            His standing, while easier than last time, is still unsteady. One hand on the arm of the sofa holds him up while he tries to figure out exactly _how_ far the floor is from his head.

            He, painfully slow, makes his way to the door, jerking it open.

            There’s a roar of noise coming from nearby. Somewhere.

           

            They must be downstairs.

 

            As he works his way down the steps, color begins to crawl away, leaving only white and gray and darkness.

            The noise is incredibly close now. He must be almost there. _There_? Here.

           

            Directly ahead, is giant blossom of glimmering light, peeling in and away and around like sun flares and delicate flower petals.

            Yes, that seems right.

            He walks closer, entranced, barely registering the sudden silence around him.

           

            He reaches his hand out, gentle, toward it, not sure what to expect, but desperate to know.

            A curling flare flicks his fingertip, sending an electric jolt through his whole body.

 

 

            Oh.

 

           

                        Everything.

 

           

            Bright, solid colors re-saturate. Sound focuses. Edges sharpen. Forms gain weight.

 

            The sudden chill of the air conditioning makes him shiver.

           

            Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s two feet away from a familiar pair of wide and concerned, bright blue eyes.

           

            Or maybe it’s the horrific realization that’s already permeating through his core.

 

            “This is his Plan B.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update... i was busy angsting about finals

Even after the room had collapsed into clamor, all he could focus on was the face, frozen in a moment, staring back at his own.

            Enjolras’s eyes are shocked wide despite the careful hold of his jaw and pinch of his chapped lips. He’s grasping at an image of stability, a careful picture of stillness. The image is lost to frizzy wisps and golden curly-q’s fleeing from his bun. It’s lost to the prominent crease, the tension in his forehead, and the conspicuous, bright concern shining from his eyes.

            Eyes that are still on him.

            Oh.

            Oh, he has to go.

            He feels an ache tie into his ribs, an urgent reminder. His first step towards the door is a near stumble, knees stiff, equilibrium shot. Instead of meeting the floor, he crashes into a bruising, steadying hold.

            “Hey, you should go back upstairs. Lie back down.” Courfeyrac’s voice is unfamiliarly placating, soft. It makes something in him recoil.

            Grantaire jerkily moves away from him. The touch on his arms burns. They shouldn’t be near him.

            As fast as he can, he moves his marionette legs away from the group, barely remembering to open the door as he exits into the open air.

            People are yelling for him. Probably Jehan. Probably Éponine. Definitely Courfeyrac. He can hear his anger under his desperate shout, he never hides anything all that well.

            Enjolras isn’t saying anything.

            Even separated by a sheet of wood, he can tell. Even separated by five years, Grantaire can _tell_ when someone’s given up on him.

           

            The sun has mostly set, leaving only a dim illumination of the cobbled walkway and an uninhibited chill sweeping from the clouds. There’s something about the cold that makes you feel more alone. Shame for not having a warm place to go– hatred that boils only to make you shiver– and blame that points at your crossed, jacketless, friendless arms and laughs at your snapped-red fingertips.

            He wants to be angry at himself. He wants to point fingers inward and scream, tell him that it’s his own fault that he’s alone. It would feel infinitely better than the empty hole of resignation.

           

            Eventually he grows tired, panting panic collapsed into himself, adding to the tumult churning in his gut. He sits on a bench outside a darkened bakery he’s never been to, his back to the window pane, looking out on the empty street.

            Grantaire relaxes his neck, letting his head thud hollowly against the glass. It’s going to take ages to find his way back to his apartment. He’d stupidly wandered in the opposite direction.

            “Comfy?”

            He startles, gripping the arm of the bench.

            “Not particularly,” he says, once he recognizes the figure to his right.

            Courfeyrac settles easily next to him, looking for all the world like he’d just _happened_ across him. By accident.

            They sit in wary silence, Grantaire studying Courfeyrac with an anxiety he can measure in his ears. His heart is beating steadily, loudly, anticipating.

            “You won the bet, you know.”

            Grantaire blinks.

            “The bet?”

            Courfeyrac laughs quietly, “How long it’d take for us to get engaged. You were right.”

            Incredulous, he returns the laughter, not sure how to respond.

            “It was at Éponine’s birthday party, so I’m told. Combeferre and I left early. We were leaving for that week in London the next morning. We knew if we’d stayed we’d have been kept up way into the wee hours. I was right– _Combeferre_ was right to have assumed that, ‘cuz we’d barely shut the door behind us, and all of you were betting on our love-life.”

            Grantaire smiles at the memory, “That was a fun night. I’d never seen Enjolras so plastered before.” He fumbles the name a bit, surprised at it coming out of his mouth.

            Courfeyrac graciously doesn’t point it out.

            “That night was the happiest I’d ever seen you. Everyone could feel it.”

            He can see where this is going.

            “You’d started taking your meds a few weeks before.”

            Yup.

            Grantaire sighs, “Courf…”

            “R, you need to start taking your meds again.”

            He shakes his head.

            Courfeyrac turns his body towards him, earnest look on his face.

            “Why not?”

            “Just ‘no’. I don’t want to talk about this. It’s really not your…”

            Courfeyrac grabs his arm, stealing his attention before he could say any more.

            “…Business? It’s not my business? Are you kidding me? You wandered into the Musain looking half dead, scared the shit out of everyone, speaking in riddles, and bolted. _Plan B?_ R. You need our help.”

            He pulls his arm away as gently as he can. The touch still burns.

            “No,” he says, feeling conviction rising, “I’m not doing this again.”

            “Do _what_ again?”

            He closes his eyes, sorting out the easiest truths.

            “Be selfish,” he pauses, “Do… do you remember Parq Square?”

            Courfeyrac, still with hesitant desperation in the sharpness of his gaze, replies, “How could I forget?”

            “A month or so before that, my sister– Renée– visited. She brought her boyfriend. It was a long car ride, so she went to the bathroom, and while she was gone, her boyfriend told me he needed some things from me, about our Parq Square demonstration. He wanted to know where everyone was going to be, who was doing what, what our safety protocols were, when everything was set to happen, and all that. At first, I told him to fuck off, ‘cuz I immediately knew something wasn’t right, but…”

            Courfeyrac stays silent.

            “But I keep razors in my bathroom,” he scratches his chin, voice wobbling with his shaky fingers, “and if I didn’t tell him, she would… _use_ them.”

            Quietly, Courfeyrac says, not a question, “She had no choice.”

            He shakes his head.

            “R, I’m so sorry.”

            He just closes his eyes again, adjusting his position on the bench, back sore.

            “Yeah. This isn’t a Siphon Cast. At least, not the kind you’re thinking of. This one won’t stop eating until everyone around me has nothing.”

            Courfeyrac tilts back, an eyebrow raised, “ _That’s_ why you left?”

            No. Grantaire stands up. “Just this time.”

            “R, we can handle this. Just come back to the Musain, we’ll figure it out.”

            “I’m good. I’m dying for a change of clothes, anyway.”

            With a weak laugh at his very weak attempt at humor, he starts walking home.

           

 

 

*****

 

           

             

            When he opens his eyes, the unfiltered sunlight cuts straight through the sluggish feeling of morning. His headache is back, devil of all devils. Even laying still, his vision is wobbly, the time on his phone flickers, floats between eight– nine– eight– thirty? Twenty?

            He pulls the blanket over his eyes, squeezing them shut, focusing hard to making everything still. Instead, the swirling moves to his stomach, churning, churning. Ignore it. It’ll just go away. Don’t think about it.

            As if angry, it spins wider, wilder.

            He throws back his sheets, one hand clasped over his mouth.

           

            His shoulder collides roughly with the doorframe to the bathroom, sending him staggering into the vanity. Falling to his knees, his hands blindly guess the approximate location of the toilet seat. And… What happens next is just as pleasant as one might think.

 

            Minutes later, it stops. Breath and stomach tremoring, he sits back onto the floor, letting his damp forehead rest on the cool porcelain, not even caring that he hasn’t cleaned it in weeks. A pathetic bout of loneliness chooses to strike him in this moment.

 His bathroom feels so empty.

 

            He stands up, leaning heavily on the counter, and stares at his reflection. He looks so… withered. The pity on everyone’s faces only makes sense, now. Christ, he looked like this? In front of… At the Musain?

            Once a semblance of steadiness reenters his legs, he leaves the mirror, ready for a couple more hours in bed.

           

            Halfway back, he’s interrupted by a quick knock on his front door, a booming sound on the old wood, hinges rattling.

            Cold seeps into his toes from the hardwood as he stands in the hallway, staring as the door shakes once more.

            He doesn’t know what compels him to walk over. Maybe the desperate need for the noise to stop. Maybe the desperate hope for company.

            After the latch is flicked to the left, he tugs it open.

           

            Enjolras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the big confrontation we've all been waiting for is up next, folks


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sry this is so late. i have no excuse this time.

For an embarrassing amount of time, he just stares, taking in the image of Enjolras standing at his door, expression perfectly blank, arms perfectly crossed, and energy startlingly electric. It feels like the sharp stings of sparklers too close to the skin, and sounds like fizzling soda, amplified to a static in his ears.

           

            “Can I come in?”

 

            Without thinking, he steps to the side, pulling the door with him.

            Enjolras quickly walks in, stopping after a few feet.

            Grantaire watches, unashamed, as he takes in the dingy walls, ratty sofa, and littering of empty bottles, glasses, and mugs, overturned, murky, or stained. It hardly gets any light, even without the curtains drawn, so it’s dim, reminiscent of a cave– or a _pit of despair_.

            “Welcome. Might I take your coat?” He asks, voice low, teasing lilt falling _just_ a bit flat.

            Enjolras sighs, meeting his eyes for a brief second before averting them, focusing instead on the painting over R’s shoulder: a still life of drooping hyacinths.

            “I brought you the doses of the new antidote,” He says, lifting the brown paper bag in his left hand. “Combeferre wrote instructions on an index card. That’s in there too.”

            “If it’s any more complicated than ‘pop and chug,’ I’ll have a genuine complaint with the manufacturer.”

            Enjolras sighs again, as he is prone to do, and just stands there.

            “Well, uh…” Grantaire adjusts his stance, legs still shaky. “Thanks for that. I’ll… see ya… or…”

            “No,” he interrupts, an almost imperceptible tremor in his voice, “we need to talk.”

            The silence in the apartment sings like a siren, opening with an operatic solo. He wants nothing more than to welcome it, hold onto the drawn-out note, and keep safe the song their rickety bridge is built on. Quietly, he starts, “I don’t think…”

            He interrupts again, firmer, “It’s not your choice this time.”

            Something rotten crumbles in his chest.

            “You can’t just spin it like that. I didn’t want to...” He trails off, words fading off his tongue.

            Enjolras closes his eyes and crosses his arms, looking closer to hugging himself than anything angry.

            “You didn’t want to… what, leave? Break up?”

            Grantaire stays silent, looking at the crooked twist of Enjolras’ mouth spitting the words out.

            “Courf told me what you said, and there… _has_ to be something else.”

            “What do you…”

            “That _can’t_ be it. I… I _know_ you. You wouldn’t…”

            “Maybe I would,” he says, suddenly completely drained, going to lean on the arm of the couch, “I _did_. I ran away because that’s just who I am, Enj. I fucked up, so instead of fixing it, I tucked tail and fled. That’s it.”

             He looks up from his diatribe, and a wind of terror rushes through him upon meeting Enj’s gaze, eye-contact no greater man could hold fearlessly.

            Jaw unclenched, Enj begins with a steadying breath, “You stopped taking your meds. You refuse to use magic. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

            He shakes his head. “It’d be so much easier if you were.”

            The anger written in every line on Enjolras’s face is soaked in something leaden and bruised. These lines are cracks in armor. They’re fractures on shields– splintered swords, arrows, and hearts. For every drop of blood they threaten to spill, there’s a scarlet flower painted on the floor beneath him.

            It makes Grantaire’s heart break.

            “What aren’t you telling me?”

            “That would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?”

            “ _Grantaire._ ”

            His voice stutters over his name, impatience and desperation still emphatically clear.

            He should have realized before now, that there’s no getting out of this without destroying all that was left. Whatever love was found in the trails of his retreat, and his reckless return, would disappear at his adamant resistance. He _definitely_ should have realized by now, that hurting his friends, even for their safety, would be an impossible task, and he’s going to have to suck it up and bear the blow.

            “Do you remember what Bernard got charged with?”

            Expression portraying only confusion, Enjolras recites, “Assault, Destruction of Public Property, and Reckless Discharge of Magic.”

            Grantaire looks to the floor. “Five minutes before he– before it happened there was that wave of energy that burst every lightbulb, ripped up some brick walkways, and popped car tires. I remember I– it knocked over some metal chairs in front of the coffee shop.”

            Enjolras says perfectly still, eyes marginally wider, eyebrows marginally higher on his forehead.

            “It burned up all the ambient energy in the Square, leaving everyone defenseless. You remember that, right?”

            He nods.

            “Ber– he– During the trial, he confessed to the assault, and denied everything else.” Grantaire has to pause, catch his breath, “And he wasn’t lying.”

            Enjolras looks stunned, any fragility hardened into a perfect cast.

            “R, what are you…”

            “I can’t control my magic. I was supposed to knock out the energy, but I– _freaked_ and caused a fucking… _earthquake_ too. And…” He can barely hold onto the air in his lungs. “I… I let him take the fall for it.”

            “R, you should…”

            “That’s why he cursed me. It’s why… I left.” His vision is dancing. “He’s getting…”

            “ _Grantaire_.”

            He opens his eyes. _They’d closed?_ He opens his eyes and says, “Revenge. This is…”

 

            Enjolras, _very close_. His mouth is moving.

 

            “What?” Is what he means to ask. Instead– a shallow inhale. Nothing’s working right.

           

            A sudden, scalding grip tugs at his bicep, frying every atom in the air around him, melting a hole through the center of his forehead.

 

            There’s a cushion underneath him.

 

            A cup in his hand. Cold? Tastes like dirt.

 

            A little flicker– curled wisp of gold.

 

            Washed away with gray.

 

            Darkened.

 

            Dark.

 

*****

 

           

           

            Waking up feels like reaching shallow water, finally getting his legs under him. The grainy sand in-between and up over his toes, the slow give in the floor below, the sudden chill of a breeze on wet skin, and the loosening of water’s forceful resistance to movement.

            The smell hits him first, before his eyes even open.

           

            Coffee.

 

            Fueled by the fumes alone, he sits up from his lean against the arm of the sofa, weathered quilt falling into bunches in his lap. The apartment looks the same. It’s still bright outside, he didn’t miss a lot of time. Thank God.

Sat before him on the coffee table, is the brown paper bag Enj–

            Shit, _Enjolras._

            Hands sinking into the cushions, he goes to push himself upward, finding a quivering weakness in his arms. A tight tremor knots through his joints, rattling their strength.

            Any height he’d achieved is immediately squashed by a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back into his seat. On top of that, his heart decides to leap into throat, causing a body-wide jolt.

            “Sorry,” Enjolras says, walking around to sit next to him, two mugs in his hands, “I made coffee.”

            Still recovering, Grantaire reverently takes the proffered drink with both hands, “Thanks.”

            “That was the curse.”

            Grantaire laughs weakly, small smile on his face, “Most of it was. I think my brain took it up a notch.”

            Enjolras doesn’t laugh, just looks vaguely into the foreground; a look that means he’s sorting out puzzle pieces, reading over clues, fitting something together. He can’t decide if that makes him nervous or not. It mostly stirs a warmth in his chest; something he’d missed.

            “You’re afraid of your magic, so you cut yourself off by quitting your medication.”

            Grantaire, not surprised, holds his mug tighter, welcoming the heat seeping into his fingers

            “Got it in one.”

            Enjolras looks at him dead on. “That’s incredibly stupid.”

            Grantaire spits a mouthful of coffee back into the cup, laugh startled out of him, “Well, don’t sugar-coat it…”

            Only looking more serious, Enjolras turns his body to face him and says, “Those meds helped you so much. You can’t even deny that. Refusing to take them ‘cuz they helped you tap into your magic is _so idiotic_. Only _you_ would come up with such an elaborate way to punish yourself.” 

            “Well…”

            “I’m beyond angry with you, but we’re going to fix this curse whether you want us to or not. And, you’re taking your meds, starting right now.”

            Grantaire, at a loss for words, simply nods, any resistance burnt away by the finality in his voice.

            Enjolras stands. “Your meds are in the bag. I’ll grab you some water.”


	6. Chapter 6

           Gulping down that pale, yellow pill comes with awful, roiling guilt and timid relief. Years ago, after the weeks of withdrawal, the world outside his bed became suffocatingly large and unbearably claustrophobic at the same time. It was so much and too little. For years, he wanted to feel that something-bright he once felt looking at the vibrant blue sky. He’d just felt nothing.

            But– How could he be so selfish? His own happiness over _their_ safety? Over _his?_

            “Five years and I can still tell...”

            Grantaire looks up from his empty glass.

            “It’s… Is it so hard to believe we want you around?”

            Enjolras’ face, unlike the rough determination from a minute ago, looks earnest, with a fragility Grantaire has never wanted to see again.

            He sets down his glass.

            “It’s funny…” he says, voice sounding far from it, “even now, I’m convincing myself that you shouldn’t.”

            Grantaire watches as Enjolras wrings his hands, keeping his gaze lower than his eyes.

            “Thank god that’s not your choice, then.”

            Instinct whispers at him to bolt.

            Christ.

            The past couple days seem to crash down on him in this moment, taking the time to remind him of every heartbreaking minute he could have spent with them. Loving them. Being loved. And all the same minutes he spent under his covers, in these walls, alone and empty. He’s been so stupid. So stupid, stupid, stupid. And still– _still_ , he wants to run away.

It’s not surprising, then, that tears begin to tear themselves from his eyes, heaving from his chest. He pulls a hand over his face, hiding once again. God, he’s so tired.

 

“I know it– I know that feeling has nothing to do with me, but I sometimes wish I’d told you– I wish I’d showed–”

Heart frozen cold, Grantaire looks into Enjolras’ eyes. They’re pinched and wet.

Grantaire wants the entire world to crumble.

“No,” he says, suddenly angry, “you don’t get to claim _any_ of the guilt for this. You were the best I ever could’ve hoped for. You made me happy every goddamned day. _I_ wrecked this. Bernard only gave me the opportunity to do what would’ve happened eventually.”

“Oh, _shut the hell up_!”

Tears are creeping down Enj’s face now, outburst rough and dripping.

“It wasn’t one sided, you impossible _idiot_. You left because you were scared. I couldn’t help you, and I regretted not doing anything about it, for _five years_.”

Grantaire feels hollowed out.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything the second it happened. And I… I didn’t mean to suggest you didn’t– hadn’t loved me.”

He brushes absently at the skin under his collar, where the ring used to hang.

“Then I’m sorry, too,” Enjolras says, soft and wavering, drawing his gaze to his own. “I’m sorry I didn’t come after you, and I’m sorry I spent all that time angry at you, instead.”

Grantaire squints his eyes.

“Don’t say whatever you’re thinking, I’m so sick of rolling my eyes.”

Grantaire squints his eyes harder, adding a grimace.

“Shut up.” This time it’s said with a chuckle, still damp, but drying.

His small smile alleviates Grantaire’s grief like a practiced hand flips a light switch in the dark.

How does he keep that forever?

“I guess I should head back to Combeferre’s?”

Enj’s eyes widen.

“Yes, we should.”

 

 

 

*****

 

 

 

 

            The next two weeks are oddly familiar.

            They– Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Enjolras, and himself– spend hours pouring idea after idea after plan after plan over the kitchen table. Grantaire, having little experience in planning anything good, forms an allegiance with Jerry, who has found a deep fondness for climbing his leg. He’s usually mellow, Courf says, which is dubious at best. Every time R walks back in, there’s a yowling rocket speeding across the apartment.

            Today, he’s given in to holding Jerry, allowing the orange-white fur to decorate his front. He’s walking around the kitchen, cooing and bouncing the cat like a baby.

            It’s so comfortable, he’s almost convinced it’s a dream.

            “All of these require Bernard to actually be here. And we can all agree that’s not happening.”

            “I could always just go over and punch his lights out,” Grantaire quips, pausing in his making Jerry dance like a puppet.

            “Like fucking _hell_ –” Enjolras begins.

            He holds the cat like a shield.

            “Kidding! Kidding.”

            “Still, R,” Courf says, placating Enj with a hand on the arm, “we’re not going to make you face him alone.”

            He opens his mouth to protest. _If anyone should face him at_ all _it should be–_

            Combeferre looks at him, expression clear a warning as any.

            “Okay, then.”

            He cuddles the cat closer, ignoring the claw glancing his chin.

            “It seems they have formed a coalition, Jerry.” He stage-whispers, “Protecting me against my will. It’s just you and me now.”

            Jehan giggles.

            Courf smiles.

            Combeferre and Enjolras roll their eyes, with not-so hidden amusement.

            Jerry, however, yells, and squirms fitfully before leaping from his arms.

            Grantaire gasps, “A betrayal!”

            He looks to see where Jerry’s headed, when he notices movement out of the corner of his eye. On the wall in the living room.

            The picture frame, golden, bordering a floral landscape, is… it’s melting. It sags down, forming a molten raindrop. It falls slowly, making no sound as it splatters the carpet. He turns to exclaim his surprise, but is met with an empty kitchen, table silently splintering in on itself. He tries to speak. Nothing. He opens his mouth to scream.

No sound.

            The walls droop, color streaking. It swirls the room around him. Wood blending with paint blending with tile blending with– he can’t breathe. He can’t hear himself hyperventilate.

 

            He closes his eyes.

 

            He keeps them closed. Trying to steady his heart.

 

            He hears nothing.

 

            He breathes.

           

            He hears talking.

 

            He hears steam, ceramics clinking.

           

            He opens his eyes.

 

            He’s in a coffee-shop.

 

            There’s a milky glaze, as if he’s looking through a foggy window. Or spying on a dream.

           

            “Where…” he exhales.

            A jolt shakes through crowd. People part, walking to and sitting trance-like in their seats.

            One man remains at the counter.

 

            The man turns around, familiar face falling into shock.

            “ _Bernard_?”

            Bernard holds his cup tightly to his chest, looking nothing like mastermind he’d claimed himself to be.

            “Where the hell am I?”

            Bernard only stares back at him, expression pale and wide-eyed.

            Grantaire can feel himself shaking. Anger, fear, aftershocks of whatever the fuck just happened–

            “ _What is this?_ ”

            The ground shifts beneath them, causing patrons to fall listlessly with their chairs, sending Bernard into the counter, coffee splattering across the floor.

            Somehow, he stays upright, his wobbly knees keeping him still.

            He looks down at Bernard, now kneeling on the tiled floor. It’s insulting how afraid he looks. How, after _all he’s done_ , could _he_ have the _gall_ to be the one cowering on the ground? How, when _he’s the one_ trapping him in this nightmare?

            “ _Bernard_ –”

            He shudders.

            “ _What are you doing to me?_ ”

            The world rattles again, crashing coffee mugs, glasses off of shelves, creaking, splintering the walls. He watches as the room swirls, feeling nauseous and strangely calm. He watches as Bernard falls into the hurricane, breaking and feathering like dust. He watches as everything goes blindingly white, painfully silent.

 

            “…ing to kill him.”

            Murmuring.

            “…e fine, I promise…”

           

            He’s on the couch.

            The faces in front of him are blurry, moving, looking away from him.

            “What– the fuck,” he says.

 

            Someone… he… _Combeferre_ , holding his forearm like a vice, says, “Yeah, I’d fucking say so.”

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long.   
> Hope it's alright.. thanks for reading!


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